


Stargazing

by larry_phanatic



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, POV Harry, Reality, Stargazing, but not really.. - Freeform, it's set in three different times of Harry's life, they're fine though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 14:03:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10388319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larry_phanatic/pseuds/larry_phanatic
Summary: "What do you want, then?""I want to fall in love," Harry didn't even need to think about it, "I mean, I want to find the one."Gemma let out a soft puff, as if to say 'I knew it', which wasn't all that impossible since it apparently was all Harry could talk about. When she spoke, her tone was affectionate and sweet. "Of course you do."Or: the one where Harry really loves stargazing but somehow it's never about actual stars.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first proper fic I've entirely written by myself and I'm pretty scared of posting it here, but I figured I had to, sooner or later.
> 
> A huge thanks to the lovely Shelby who beta'd this, ily.♥ And also a massive shout out to Elisa, Helen, Grace, Ren, Alessia and Jade who read this and told me what they thought about it, ily too.♥
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! And let me know if you liked my story.

✰

Harry firmly believes in love. He's always had.

He's always believed in that kind of heart-shattering, slow-burning, all-consuming love.

And he's wanted it since—well, since forever.

Even back when he was nine or ten, when he used to have all those deep and emotional conversations with Gemma (as deep and emotional as a chat between a 10- and a 14-year-old could be), the two of them hand-in-hand sprawled on the carpet in their shared bedroom, pillows and stuffed animals and blanket-covered open umbrellas—"It's bad luck Harry!" She'd always say, but she'd lie under them anyway—scattered all around them.

They grew up there, in that makeshift sometimes-castle-sometimes-pirate-ship of theirs, where they meticulously crafted their special bond piece by piece, laughter after laughter, memory by memory.

Every little or big secret they've ever shared was whispered in the flickering light of a flashlight—which was, for some reason, running out of power all the time.

The most popular topic of discussion was, of course, love. They would have profound soulmates talks, telling each other how they both wanted to find that person they could have their 'happily ever after' with.

Once, when Harry had just turned thirteen and Gemma was sixteen, they were talking about life goals. They'd made a hole in their 'castle's roof' so that they could see the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars that were glued to their bedroom's ceiling.

"What is the one thing that you want the most? Like, ever," Harry asked, nudging his sister's head with his, both of them squished on the same small pillow to both take a peek at their so-called sky.

Gemma's right hand was tangled with his whereas her left one was holding her glittery-pink stuffed pony to her chest. "Um," when Harry glanced at her, she looked like she was pondering on it deeply. Then, "I want a pony," she said, resolutely.

Harry barked out a laugh, which soon transformed into a cry when Gemma dug her fingernails in his skin. Usually, having a pony is the dream of 6-year-olds, not of soon-to-be adults, but it's his sister so Harry wasn't all that surprised.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologized, "Who am I to judge people's dreams!"

"Exactly, Haz," she agreed, looking at him with an amused smile on her lips. Then her eyes went back to the stars. "What do you want, then?"

"I want to fall in love," Harry didn't even need to think about it, "I mean, I want to find the one."

Gemma let out a soft puff, as if to say 'I knew it', which wasn't all that impossible since it apparently was all Harry could talk about. When she spoke, her tone was affectionate and sweet. "Of course you do."

Harry smiled. They stargazed for a long time, just content to lie next to each other in comfortable silence.

"Tell me about it!" Gemma's voice startled Harry out of his garbling thoughts.

"Uh?"

"The love of your life."

It was in that moment that it happened. Harry'd been thinking about it for quite some time, had been questioning himself whether it was normal that while all his friends always wanted to 'be' with girls, he never really felt that way towards them; or why boys in elementary school wanted to be some girl's Prince Charming but he, on the contrary, wanted one for himself, too.

But he hadn't intended to tell Gemma just yet, he was confused and wasn't sure if it was just a phase—although in his heart, he already kind of knew it wasn't.

It was just a slip of the tongue, a trick of the mind.

"But I haven't met _him_ yet!" Even to Harry's own ears, his words seemed odd. He'd always been careful, lately he'd started to use neutral pronouns when talking about this kind of things in order to stop that sense of wrongness spreading inside his chest whenever he said 'she' or 'her'.

He felt all the blood in his body rushing to his cheeks, which were surely blushing furiously judging by how hot they felt.

He was staring intensely at one of the plastic stars, the one with the broken tip he would always look at while reflecting or dwelling on one thing or the other, and he wasn't going to face Gemma anytime soon. He coughed awkwardly. "Um, I—I mean—"

"I know you haven't, dork," Gemma's fingers tightened their hold and squeezed, her thumb rubbing soothing circles on the upper side of his hand, and even if Harry wasn't looking at her, he was sure she was smiling in that comforting way of hers, “What I'm asking is, how would you like _him_ to be?"

Gemma didn't even blink at Harry's sudden revelation and the best thing was that it didn't feel weird, it felt normal and okay and easy. When he met his sister's eye it was like he finally let out a metaphorical breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His ribcage felt wider, his heart lighter.

They shared this look that said 'you're okay Haz, I love you' and 'thank you, Gems, I love you too'.  It was like nothing had changed, and maybe nothing actually did. "Someone who's nice, with a good sense of humour..." he began.

And that was it.

In the dimly lit room, their homemade constellations shined mildly, but to them, it had always been perfect.

Even now that they're definitely too grown up for castles and fairy tales, sometimes they just let themselves believe. They turn out the light and lie down just like when they were little.  And everything's just the same- They're the same. Harry's hair is longer and curlier, Gemma's bleached and iron-straightened; his skin's not baby-smooth anymore but with the ghost of a stubble, Gemma's highlighted with make-up; their words and eyelids are at times heavier and weighed down by their many experiences - some wonderful, others heart-wrecking.

But it's still the two of them, under a not-so-twinkling ceiling and warm blankets, whispering each other's secrets.

They named the conversations they have in their childhood bedroom 'stargazing sessions' - the fact that they could just go outside and look and the real sky is not that important. Somehow those star-shaped pieces of plastic are way more meaningful. Keepers of murmured bits of life, guardians of stifled laughter.

It was right after his long rendition of 'Harry's soulmate 101', after Gemma had fallen asleep with an umbrella's handle digging into her hip, that Harry wrote the list. He went straight to his bedside table, took a pen and his worn leather journal with the scribbled cover and tore off a page.

He then went back inside the blanket fort and with his legs to his chest and the piece of paper balanced on his right knee he started to write.

 _Lifetime achievements_  
_1\. Buy a pony for Gemma._  
_2\. Find and marry the love of my life._  
_3\. Make my mum proud._  
_4\. Sing for a living._  
_5\. Have friends who will stay forever._

Once finished, Harry looked at the messily written words on the sheet with a hopeful smile, folded it neatly and hid it in his wallet. An unspoken promise.

✰

It's been ten years since that night, and the list, now crumpled and worn out, is still inside Harry's wallet. It's amazing how a piece of paper can hold an enormous amount of power in one's life.

For Harry, it's always been some kind of constant.

A fixed point to hold on to when things got messy, complicated or too much for his own sake, when he was this close to giving up everything—honestly, sometimes he'd only have needed one word from the right person and he would have done in, would have packed and left on the next train or plane or bus or whatever, hand in hand with _him_.

Once he even got as far as ripping the list in two before regaining his self-possession.

He and the boys were in Melbourne, back in 2013. And it'd been a particularly stressing day full of screams and fights he hadn't really meant to have. And he was haggard and so fucking tired of harassing flashes and double-faced headlines and forced-out lies and ill-concealed love stories.

He'd been ranting about this stuff and having shots with Niall in the latter's room for two hours now—the others had gone somewhere partying—, his friend's arm gripping his hip and his head slowly collapsing onto Harry's shoulder. At some point, he's not sure when, tears started pooling at the corner of Harry's eyes, out of exasperation.

Niall was babbling something about Simon Cowell deserving a Hell's circle just for himself to rot away—"Dante's Inferno'd be longer if the guy lived in our days, lemme tell ya this Harold, Cowell's Satan. Satan! Trus'me"—and Harry, by all means, agreed with him.

Niall's body slowly drifted alongside Harry's shoulder and arm until he was lying on the mattress. He picked up the almost empty vodka bottle next to him and hugged it to his chest, fondling it. He was so very drunk.

Harry's head was woozy and swirling in circles, and his eyes wouldn’t stop watering. He was so tired. So fucking tired of hiding and lying. He and Louis got into a huge fight because of him just before the show, and what if he’d screwed everything up? He'd even tore up on stage that night while singing ‘Over Again’.

It was just— It was getting too much, he didn't know if he could handle living behind this facade which was crumbling more and more with every new dawn, PR endlessly adding fabricated bricks to it that he wasn't allowed to demolish.

He sniffled unintentionally. Niall, who was now sipping vodka straight from the bottle, glanced at him, removed the bottle from his lips and set it down on the floor. "Harry. You okay?"

Harry's shoulders gave out at being addressed as he shifted from the bed headboard to the mattress next to his friend. "Niall," was what he'd wanted to say, but it came out more like a strained sob.

Niall turned to his side and his hand came resting on Harry's stomach. "Oh, Hazza, none of this, come on, it's just a fight," he said, pronouncing his words extremely well considering the amount of alcohol now present in his veins, but Niall's always had the incredible ability to sober up in a ten-second time span if needed. "You'll sort it out, you know you will, you always sort it out."

Harry buried his face in the crook of Niall's neck and hugged him tightly. If he was wetting his 200$ t-shirt, Niall didn't seem to mind at all. "I don't know, Ni, I really screwed up this time." Another choked sob escaped his throat. Now that he’d started, he couldn't stop.

"You didn't. You're just stressed out. You both are," every word Niall said vibrated through his ribcage and reached Harry's ear, now pressed on his chest. "You're okay, you'll come through it."

Harry didn't think he was going to come through it, at all. "I was so selfish," he blurted out, "I know it's as hard for Lou as it is for me if not more, and I—," he hiccupped another sob, "I said some real bad stuff and— and it made it look like I w-wanted to b-blame it all on him, but I didn't want to, s'not what I think, it isn't."

Niall held him impossibly tight. "I know, and Louis knows too. These things happen but you'll be alright."

Even though Niall was certainly trying his best, Harry felt hopeless. In his alcohol-dazed frenzy, he was sure his whole life was fucked up for good, and it was his fault. When drunk, Harry’s always been the most negative person in existence.

His eyes were prickling with salty tears and his whole body was now pliant against Niall’s. He no longer had an ounce of strength in his system.

✰

In the fogginess of his brain, Harry was barely able to recall the fight he’d had with Louis no more than six or seven hours prior, the memories coming to his mind like blurry images, as if he’d lived them with clouded lenses over his eyes.

It’d happened in the backstage of the concert venue, the two of them sat on the couch, Louis’s legs and bare feet on Harry’s lap, as per usual. Their hands were greasy and their lips were surrounded by crumbs, pizza leftovers lying on the carpet at Harry’s feet, but this hadn’t prevented them from slotting their fingers together and kissing thoroughly.

Harry’d been moody for the entirety of the first two weeks of the month, October bringing unhappy and heavy-hearted thoughts and foreshadowing Autumn’s coming. Louis had been in a sulk most of the time, too, seemingly not able to take anything as light-heartedly as he used to.

Harry would constantly feel overwhelmed, on the verge of explosion, a second away from losing it.

That is why, when Louis had whispered, “I’ll have to be papped with Eleanor again next week,” in between their kisses, Harry’d had to pull back and exhale, exasperated.

“Why would you tell me this right now?” He’d snapped, “why would you bring it up an hour before the show? You know I get antsy.”

“Love,” Louis’s hand found Harry’s forearm, squeezing slightly, but Harry had swatted it away, standing up instead. Louis had looked hurt. “Hey, I’m sorry. I was only told an hour or so ago, I thought I’d tell you right away.”

“How did it even cross your mind _now_? Am I not enough, that you have to think about her even when you’re kissing me?” Louis had only so much as parted slightly his lips to answer, getting on his feet too, but Harry hadn’t let him talk. “Why don’t you go and be with her for real then?”

“What are you talking about?” Louis had asked, looking positively forlorn, his bright blue eyes fogging up. And Harry had felt guilty, yes, but he’d also been blinded by his anger and tiredness, finally bursting out after being hidden for too long.

“You don’t really think that,” Louis’d continued, his tone worried.

“Don’t I?” Harry had rolled his eyes. Deep down in his heart, he knew he was the one in the wrong, but he’d just—He’d reached his boiling point.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Louis had said, flicking a hand through his messy fringe, “you know I love you, Haz, and in case you forgot, I’m gay.” He’d taken a step forward, smiling tentatively and trying to reach for Harry’s hand, but Harry had just shaken his head and stepped back.

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s not enough, Louis. I can’t do this anymore,” he’d told him, gesturing between the two of them with his pointer finger, “I can’t stand it. I feel miserable all the time. And you’re always out there with her and I can’t— I’m so tired of this.”

Louis had _laughed_. He’d laughed this hysterical high-pitched laughter but his features were anything but amused. The crinkles by his eyes had made their appearance, not because of his breath-taking crinkly-eyed smile, but due to his half disgusted and half unbelieving expression.

The moment he’d flipped his lid, opening his mouth to yell, “you can’t be serious”, eyes bulging out and hands yanking Harry’s shirt, Harry’d known: he’d screwed up.

“What do you mean you can’t do _this_ anymore, uh?” Louis’d cried, mimicking Harry’s gesture from before with his finger, “I can’t believe you, Harry.”

“I— “

“Shut up!” This version of Louis was new. They’d had arguments before, of course, many of them. But he’d never been so crazy-eyed, his voice had never got this dangerously high and trembling, and his temper had never been so utterly lost. He was hopping mad. “Don’t play the only victim here, we both are. You _cannot_ blame it all on me! Do you think it’s easy for me? Do you think I like going around holding hands with someone I’m not even friends with just because I fucking fell in love with _you_?”

Harry’d felt sick, his heart had sunk, what the fuck had he just done? “No, baby, I—,” he’d tried, but Louis had cut him off again.

“Don’t you baby me!” he’d shouted, his hands flailing around in the air, “It’s hard for me, too. I feel like shit all the fucking time. And you know what? I think it’s worth it. But apparently, we’re not on the same page.”

Harry had caught Louis’s hand in his, muttering, “I’m sorry, I— It’s hard. I’m sor—“, but Louis had turned on his heels and stormed out of the room—a loud “fuck off, Harry!” was all he’d left behind. Well, that, and a blubbering Harry, who’d fallen to the floor on his knees, his burning hands pressing hard against his face in the faint hope of spontaneously combusting.

He’d ruined everything, all of it, he’d lost Louis for good because he couldn’t fucking understand that he was not the only one who was hurting.

Or, he knew, but he’d just preferred fucking everything up. Because that was just who he was, Harry Styles. Profession: wreck.

✰

Niall brushing one of his curls away from his forehead and his own broken hiccup was what brought him back to reality again.

Harry slowly shook his head no, "I don't want any of this anymore." He disentangled himself from Niall's body and stared at the ceiling, Niall doing the same. It was littered with dozens of tiny annoyingly-bright LED lights.

Harry's eyes were itching and burning due to all the crying, but also because of those little lights above him that he couldn't avoid looking at, since they were everywhere. Fucking fancy hotel shit, that's what it was.

The irony of it all was that when he'd first entered his room—which looked exactly like Niall's—that morning, his first thought had been that with the other lights out and just the LED’s on, the ceiling would have reminded him of a starry sky. It'd made him smile and think about Gemma and their faux-stargazing chats. Now it only made him feel bitter and miserable.

In his tight jeans' back pocket, Harry's wallet was like a very heavy burden and he felt like it would have burnt a hole in them if he didn’t take it out soon. So he did. He opened it and took the familiar worn sheet out, holding it in his fist and throwing the wallet on the floor. Niall stayed silent, but Harry was sure he knew. He'd told the boys the story of the list many times.

When one of the teeny bulbs started flickering and turned itself off after a few seconds, Harry snorted sardonically because of how it sort of resembled a shooting star—he was still drunk as fuck, after all. Did this mean he was entitled to a wish?

"I wish I wasn't famous," he murmured, tightening his fist. And the thing is, even though it wasn't actually all that true in the end, in that moment all he wanted was to go back to The X-Factor auditions and run away with Louis the second after he’d met him for the first time in the toilet.

The tears hadn't stopped streaming yet. When he said nothing else, Niall squeezed his knee twice. "You know, sometimes I wish that, too, but we only say that when we're angry or tired like you are now," he suddenly sounded sad, "we've been so lucky, we just have to face the downsides. But hey, we're in this together, you know?"

Harry felt guilty, Niall didn't deserve to be sad, ever. None of the boys did. He was ruining everything and everyone. He felt like caving in. This one time, he really felt like giving up.

He straightened his arms above his head, opened the folded yellowish piece of paper and ripped it in half without even sparing it a glance, letting the two halves fall on his stomach.

Niall uttered a loud gasp, immediately getting back up on his elbows and picking up the pieces. "Oh Harry, why did you do this?" He asked, sliding his arms under Harry’s armpits and pulling him up to lean against his chest. "I'm sure you know it's going to be alright."

The sudden realization of what he'd just done hit Harry hard like a wrecking ball and he was a sobbing mess in no time, clinging to Niall like his life depended on it. He choked out a string of whispers that said "I don't know" and "I screwed up" on loop, bawling his eyes out and building up probably the worst migraine he'd ever had.

Niall shushed him and didn't loosen his hold for a long time—or two minutes, Harry didn't know to be honest—until he said something that Harry's headache-muffled ears didn't quite understand. He didn't have the strength to ask him to repeat, though, so he just settled for humming as an answer.

Niall stood up, handed him a dozen of tissues and wrapped him in a cocoon made of blankets, and left the room. Harry's eyelids fell shut.

Just a few seconds later he felt someone shaking his shoulders. "Haz," Niall whispered, "wake up, I brought you water."

Harry blinked three times to clear his vision. Niall was now wearing sweatpants and a different t-shirt from before and he was looking at him warmly, his light blue eyes visibly weary. Harry must have fallen asleep without noticing.

Niall pressed the cold water bottle to his cheek, making him hiss. "Come on, get up, Lou's on his way."

Harry’s eyes widened in bewilderment and his voice was croaky when he muttered, “what? Why?” He freed himself from the blanket he was enveloped in, getting up on his elbows and rubbing sleep dust away from his eyes, that were still prickling. “Why is he coming here?” But most importantly, why would he even come? Harry didn’t understand, unless Louis was about to rush into the room to punch him in the face. Now, that, he would have understood.

Niall poked his cheek with the bottle again, the smile on his lips sort of exasperated, and rolled his eyes. “I told you I was gonna call him,” he explained.

And oh, Harry probably should have learnt not to idly hum in response to questions he didn’t understand.

He finally grabbed the plastic bottle – that Niall was still pressing on his now half-frozen cheek – and took a sip. His head was in a whirl, the few minutes or hours he’d slept not nearly enough for him to recover. He pinched the flesh between his eyebrows, sighing. Niall gave his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze.

Harry sniffled. When he set the bottle on the bedside table he felt his eyes starting to water yet again, because right next to the extremely kitsch hotel lamp, was his list. _The_ list, several pieces of transparent tape sticking the two halves he’d ripped back together.  

Harry glanced back and forth from the paper to Niall a few times, at a loss for words. He loved his friend so vehemently that his heart twitched a bit.

“Niall,” he croaked. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to continue, but he tried to express his gratitude pulling Niall down for a hug, tugging on his t-shirt and holding him tight, Niall going easily.

“You’re welcome,” Niall said, stumbling back to his feet, his tone genuine, sincere. Always sincere.

“Really, I— Thank—,” Harry started, but was interrupted by someone slamming the door. Niall gave him a knowing nod and thumbs-up, disappearing out of the room.

A few seconds later Louis was standing at the edge of the bed, gorgeous as always, even with what looked like glittery rainbow confetti nested in his dishevelled hair, cheeks rosy possibly due to the alcohol and black skinny jeans stained with what was probably vodka or some other hard liquor.

He had his fists clenched and he was panting, clearly out of breath, and the thought of Louis dashing out of whatever overcrowded club or party he’d gone to, only to rush to the hotel because of Harry’s breakdown, had Harry’s heart shredding. He wished some tape was all he needed to fix that, too.

Harry took a sharp intake of air and a pathetic wail came out of his lips soon after, a failed attempt at saying Louis’s name. A lump was already forming in his throat and big fat tears were already digging grooves down his face. He stood up, almost tripping on the tangle of blankets, and got closer to Louis, although he didn’t really know what to do or say. He couldn’t even get his head around the reason why Louis was there, why he still cared after what he’d told him.

Louis’s posture was stiff, but his voice cracked when he murmured, “Harry…” and sat down on the bed, their positions now switched, Harry standing before him, looking straight into his now bleary eyes glistening with tears.

“Louis, I’m so sorry,” Harry’s knees gave out and he fell miserably in a pile of limbs in front of Louis’s bare ankles, the triangle tattoo side-eying him, disapproving.

“Come here,” Louis motioned for him to come closer, and Harry glumly leant his head on Louis’s lap, squirming faintly when Louis’s fingers immediately found their way through his messy curls, entangling and disentangling them absent-mindedly.

“Why are you here?” Harry asked while he closed his eyes and anchored himself to Louis’s right ankle with a hand, thumb gently stroking the tiny inked triangle.

Louis huffed. He didn’t sound annoyed. Tired, more like. “Because I love you.”

Harry shook his head repeatedly, whispering different versions of “I’m so sorry” over and over, Louis shushing him occasionally, otherwise not saying a single word.

A few minutes later Harry muttered, “I was an idiot. I acted like a dick.”

“You did,” Louis agreed, scratching behind Harry’s ear.

Harry sighed pitifully and looked up. “No, but, I really, really did. I was so selfish.”

“I know,” Louis bit the flesh on the inside his cheek, then he added, “I’m not disagreeing here,” and put one hand up in the air, the smallest smile forming on his lips.

Harry sighed so hard he momentarily struggled for breath. “You should be yelling at me right now, why aren’t you yelling at me? Why are you cuddling me? I—,” his voice caught and he moved to sit next to Louis on the bed, “I don’t understand why you’re being so good to me, I don’t deserve this.”

“Harry,” Louis’s voice sounded so loving that Harry’s whole body trembled lightly, “you really hurt me tonight.” Harry felt an arm gently pulling him closer and the contrast between Louis’s affectionate tone and actions and his words got Harry’s head spinning once again.

“I’m—”

“Let me talk, please,” Louis cut him off, he was still crying but he managed to appear quite calm. Harry gave a quick nod in response and Louis went on. “You really hurt me. The things you said, they- Well, it was not okay of you. But the thing is, like you said, it’s hard. And I know you must be tired of this situation because it’s fucking shit, you know? But hearing you say stuff like that as if you’re the only one going through this- It hurt, too.”

“I know,” Harry whimpered against Louis’s chest, his body warm, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what the fuck got into me. These months have been tough, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend. I don’t like to lie, I hate it,” he wiped salty tears away from his cheeks with his sleeve, “the moments I spend with you are the ones when all this weight burdening my heart sort of disappears,” Louis nodded, silently agreeing, “and when you mentioned her, it was like everything came back to me all of a sudden and I— I just snapped. It was a huge mistake. I’m really, really sorry. I know you don’t want to do this either. I mean, all of— All these fucking stunts they want us to pull. I promise. I wouldn’t want to hurt you on purpose. I love you so much, Lou, so much. You— You know I do.”

Louis kissed his hair, rubbing up and down his shoulder and arm. “I know,” he said, voice raspy and perfect, “I love you too.”

“And you know you can just, like, say the word and I’ll open the door to the balcony and scream that I’m in love with you, and the whole world will finally know. I will,” Harry intertwined his fingers with Louis’s, “please, I’ll do it.”

Louis smiled, the crinkles by his eyes making their return and setting fire to Harry’s chest. “You know we can’t,” he reminded him, “we can’t do this to the boys, not now, it would cause too much trouble. We just have to hold on, I guess. But one day we will, okay? We’ll scream it together until we lose our voices for good and therefore our career as singers along with them.”

Harry half snorted and half sniffled. “Yes— Yes, alright. You’re right,” he paused to clear his throat, then carried on. “Tonight, I had a breakdown. I swear I’ll never say anything even remotely similar,” he shook his head no, trying to erase his own words from his memories, “I was mean to you. Bad. Cruel. Wicked.”

Louis laughed. Harry sobbed.

“Oh, come on Haz, you’re no evil mastermind,” he squeezed Harry’s hands, tucking his head in the crook of Harry’s neck, planting the softest of kisses on his collarbone. “I forgive you. I’ve had my low moments, too. It’s not our first fight, you know.”

“You’re too good,” Harry said, bringing their joint hands to his mouth and pecking each knuckle. “I need you to be mad at me.”

Louis chuckled against Harry’s torso. “Okay,” he said, “I’m mad at you.” With a sweep, he let go of Harry’s hands and shifted his whole body on his lap, straddling him and linking his own fingers behind Harry’s neck, Harry’s hands immediately resting on Louis’s hips out of habit. “But may I stop being mad for a few hours?” He asked, tired blue eyes meeting spent green ones.

Harry inhaled sharply, their mouths were so close that they were exchanging warm static waves. “Yes. Okay, you may.”

Louis smiled sweetly and leant forward, sealing their lips together in a chaste feathery kiss, soon turning into dozens of needy and all-telling ones. Harry sighed in between them, relief washing all over him, and fell backwards on the mattress, Louis going nimbly with him.

Harry hugged him closer, as tightly as humanly possible, with the intention of never letting go.

It was in that moment that Harry remembered. Or rather, he realized once again, that the second point on his list was definitely about that beautiful boy with confetti in his hair that he had in his arms. And Harry promised him, whispering so softly he never knew if Louis had actually heard him or not, “one day I’ll marry you.”

✰

Today, when Harry wakes up in their king-sized bed, he finds Louis still fast asleep next to him, snoring softly. He smiles, by default.

Their room is only dimly lit, it’s probably quite early in the morning.

Harry slowly turns on one side so that he can look properly at Louis, who’s lying on his tummy with his dainty hands tucked under his pillow. His head, that’s facing Harry, is half buried in the pillow, too.

Harry feels tingly all over; his boy is stunning. Even now, with his thin lips slightly parted and a tiny bead of drool dangling from the corner of his mouth. His long sleep-clumped eyelashes are casting shadows on his cheeks, his rose gold eyelids shimmering.

The duvet has been thrown down to his hips at some point in the night. Louis’s only wearing sweatpants, his upper body is bare, and Harry can, therefore, admire the perfect arching of his back dimples.

He calmly brings his right hand to Louis’s skin. It’s a barely-there touch and Louis faintly quivers in his sleep, goosebumps chasing all over his body.

Harry languidly starts joining the freckles peppering Louis’s back and shoulders with his pointer finger. He loses himself in them all the time—when Louis is asleep next to him, laying there so effortlessly beautiful but still unaware of his own uniqueness, Harry always traces these patterns he by now knows by heart.

His own chest aches a little bit every time. He didn’t know one could love this much, sometimes it almost feels _too much._ Falling in love didn’t come with a manual, for this reason at times Harry feels too overwhelmed by it, the way his heart leaps in his ribcage, the way his pupils dilate darkening his irises.

The short fair hair on Louis’s shoulder blades lightly tickles Harry’s finger. He feels privileged, so utterly blessed to be the only one who can experience Louis like this, to be able to touch him in this way.

These small speckles are meant just for him, he’s the only one who’s supposed to know them, something he must cherish and treasure. They’re like little constellations, so much better than any other night sky he could stargaze.

When he misses his home back in Holmes Chapel, Gemma and their chats under their handcrafted sky, he always has his boy.

Louis’s body holds dozens of tiny galaxies forever embedded in his silky-smooth skin. Harry guesses this makes Louis his Universe.

Warm sunbeams are filtering through the shutters. In this light, Louis’s skin seems to be made of gold, he glows. Harry feels his cheeks stretch in an ever so tender smile.

Louis’s not only golden on the outside. His heart is, too. He’s the most selfless person Harry’s ever known, always keen on bringing mirth to other people’s lives. Always caring, always loving. Harry’s stomach can’t help but flutter when he thinks about how lucky he is to be able to call him _his_ , the butterflies are just relentless when it concerns Louis’s- Well, Louis’s existence.

Louis shifts quietly and a small knowing smirk forms on his lips, eyes still shut. “You give me the creeps,” he murmurs in his hoarse morning voice.

Harry beams, his hand never stopping drawing links between Louis’s freckles. He’s so in love with him. “I’m so in love with you,” he voices his thoughts.

Louis cracks an eye open, gazing at him for a moment before closing it again, and his smile broadens. “I know, too bad I’m not.”

Harry snorts. “Too bad.”

Louis draws near him and removes one of his arms from under the pillow, wrapping it tightly around Harry’s chest instead and leaning his head above Harry’s heart, Harry shifting on his back and kissing the top of Louis’s head.

“I love you too,” he breathes. Harry hugs him closer.

On Harry’s bedside table sits his wallet and his mind immediately drifts to _that_ thought.

Thinking back to his list, he lets it sink in for a moment: the incredible, mind-boggling fortune he's had.

He did end up buying a pony for Gemma. It was actually the first thing he’d bought with his first cheque from The X-Factor Tour.

The look on her face when he revealed he’d really bought her a pony was priceless, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. She gave a loud shriek and yelled, “You _remembered,_ I can’t believe it!” and crushed him with a hug, “I feel sorry for all the people out there with a brother because I definitely got the best one of the bunch!”

Gemma named him Harold, the joker—“Look, Haz, you two have the same long brown hair! Adorable”— and she keeps him in a farm near Holmes Chapel, paying him a visit once or twice a week when she can.

Making his mom proud has been easier. She’s told him possibly millions of times on hundreds of different occasions.

She whispered it while hugging him as tight as possible when he’d come out to her a few months after he’d confessed Gemma, Harry crying but feeling safe in her arms as he stammered how much he loved her; she screamed it on the phone when he’d called her to say he’d got into The X-Factor, her voice quivering just as much as his; she reiterated it every time one of their singles or albums had dropped collecting record after record and award after award; she keeps telling him now almost on a daily basis, texting him stuff like “ _have you seen the last pic of Dusty I posted on instagram? miss you, I’m so proud of you xx”_ or calling him to know how he’s been doing and always sneaking a loving “I’m proud of you, love” in at the end of the conversation.

As for the other points on the list, Harry’s been the luckiest person in the world, because he managed to get all three in one deal.

With One Direction came his career. His wonderful, unbelievable career, for which he will be forever incredibly grateful and which not only suffices for his own living, but it also enabled him to help his family and thousands of people all around the globe. He couldn’t have been more fortunate.

But with One Direction also came his best friends. People who Harry’s sure will always be there for him, no matter what. People with whom he’s shared the most wonderful experiences of his still young life, and with whom he hopes to share plenty more.

He loves them with all his heart.

He loves Niall and how he’s always a good laugh, ready to support him all the time, willing to pair up with him for all his stupid ideas.

He loves Liam and the way he always manages to find the right thing to say, how he would always take the floor and speak up for him when he can’t.

He loves Zayn and his big brain and a bigger heart, his soft side hidden behind that sinister look of his—even though they haven’t talked in quite some time now, the two of them starting to slowly drift apart when Zayn left the band. Either way, he knows that what they have together with the rest of the boys is a forever deal, and they will eventually get close again.

And of course, he loves Louis. Beautiful, clever, witty Louis.

Harry probably fell in love with him the moment he laid his eyes on him, and he falls in love with him and every little detail of his personality and body a little more every day.

He loves his dazzling blue eyes and all the beautiful things they hold within them - stars amongst the other things, Harry’s sure.

He loves his sharp cheekbones and his sharp remarks. He loves his voice and how its strength carries the chorus of most of their songs, and he loves how somehow Louis’s still self-conscious about it.

He loves the different shades of pink and red that take possession of Louis’s cheeks anytime Harry compliments him, a pretty frequent occurrence since Harry tells him how beautiful he is all the time.

Harry loves everything about him. But most of all, he’s in love with their love. The way they fit together like two jigsaw pieces, their bodies tangling as if they are meant to be together. Harry likes to think they are. Louis is the love of his life.

There’s only one thing left to do in order to achieve all the goals that his thirteen-year-old self-wrote down. And Harry’s been thinking about it for weeks. Months, even.

He wants to spend the rest of his life with the boy currently tickling his side with his fingers. Harry shivers lightly because of it—or maybe that’s not the only reason.

“Tu-tum, tu-tum, tu-tum, tu-tum,” Louis whispers in the silence of their room.

“Uh?”

“Your heart,” he says, voice quiet and low, “tu-tum, tu-tum, tu-tum, tu-tum, tu-tum,” he adds, picking up speed with each onomatopoeia, “it beats so fast.”

Harry blushes, he feels like he’s been set on fire. This is it. He squeezes Louis’s shoulder, motioning for him to get up and rest their backs on the bed header.

Louis peers at him curiously. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I- I’m fine,” Harry answers, voice shaking, metaphorically kicking himself for giving away that he is definitely not okay.

“O-kay,” Louis sing-songs, but his smile is suspicious, like he knows what’s going on. He always knows what’s going on.

Harry takes Louis’s hands and envelopes them in his. He clears his throat and then, “Louis.”

“Should I worry?” Louis asks, tilting his head to one side.

“No,” Harry reassures him, and Louis gestures for him to go on with his chin, so Harry does. “Louis,” he repeats, but then he seems to lose the ability to speak.

“That’s my name,” Louis jokes, laughing softly.

Harry shakes his head, “Sorry,” he says, biting his bottom lip.

Louis leans forward and pecks him once, “It’s okay, take your time.”

A few minutes later, Harry finally goes on. “I love you more than I ever thought I could love someone. I feel incredibly lucky to have found you. You’re my best friend and every memory we share together is the most valuable treasure I have.”

He suddenly stops because his eyes are starting to water and Louis is staring at him with this look of utter affection that’s making his heart hurt.

When Harry more or less regains his composure, he asks, “so… You know the list?”

“Your list? The list that you wrote when you were thirteen and Gemma was sixteen and you were laying in a blanket fort and you were telling each other what your biggest dreams were and she s—”

Harry puts a hand on Louis’s mouth to interrupt his rant, laughing and rolling his eyes, Louis laughing fondly along with him. “Shut up!” Harry tells him, removing his hand.

“Never heard of it,” Louis says.

Harry’s eyes roll again without his consent. “So, the list,” he continues, and Louis smirks, nodding, “as you _may recall,_ there are five points in it,” Louis hums in response, “and I’ve achieved all of them, except for one, that’s only, um— Like, half-completed.”

Louis snorts, but his eyes are now glistening, too, and his voice cracks when he says, “for God’s sake, you make it sound like a video game.”

Harry smiles but ignores him. “You’re the love of my life, Louis,” he says instead, “the days I’ve spent with you, I cherish them, but I want to spend with you every single one I still have to live,” Harry is looking at his lap, where he tightens his hold of Louis’s small hands in his, and Louis sniffles.

When he looks up, he sees tears slowly streaming down Louis’s face, mirroring his own. Harry then brings a hand to Louis’s cheeks, wiping the tears away.

Harry’s voice cracks up too when he goes on. “So… Um— This is so impromptu, I’m sorry, but,” he pauses to snivel, and when he talks again, it’s probably way faster than he’s ever spoken before, “Louis Tomlinson, will you marry me?” Louis’s face splits with a blinding grin and his eyes are the most beautiful blue Harry’s ever seen. Harry keeps blabbering, “Shit, I don’t even have a ring, you don’t have to answer now. Fuck, I don’t have a ring, I’m sorry- This is, like, the worst propos—”

But he’s cut off by Louis’s soft lips on his, a quiet sob escaping Louis’s mouth. “Yes. Yes, of course I will.”

✰

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr here: http://sweetcreature-lou.tumblr.com/ ♥
> 
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